"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
Barbarous entropy and decadent acrimony, the taste of puissance and the relish of pernicious, venomous dedication, like an ever-present shadow, a maneuvering monster, a calculating cretin, he marched in carnivore pursuit, pride bared, regarded in the strength, in the domination, of their successes. Part of their recent victories had been physical prowess, his own matching sinister designs, others’ pulsing, rippling undulations scorching one another’s hides in hopes of assailment in practicing skirmishes, motivation for supremacy, for absolute sovereignty drenched and dousing. Another portion and reason for their increasing ascension were the spirited thieves, the stealthy brigands, the mutinous mercenaries, grasping, toiling, scraping away at secrets, at armor, at trinkets and lies, crossing over enemy lines or clawing their way through open halls. The Reaper had never imagined their overwhelming prowess to be in anything but brawn and power, scorching, slaying, courting flames, loathing, contempt, and damnation through sieges and assaults, but he’d always been a titan, a demon, a devil brought up to believe in war, in upheavals, in seditious displays and haughty deliverances. But now they’d reached a new era, a new regime, covered and tapered in illustrious, specious skills, artisans of veils, shades, and concealments, blistering with new faces and masquerading finesse. While some of his citizens followed the bracken veneer of battle hymns and malicious drums, others crept, slithered, and slunk their way through the gallows, along narrow chambers and unlocked doors, admiring thresholds they shouldn’t touch and finding their way amidst the apertures, tilting their heads to withheld conversations. Deimos respected their vigilance, their talents, their mastery and capabilities, because while he drenched himself in the grating, minatory enticements, they dove into deeper fathoms; and he wasn’t sure which one was more treacherous, which one was more dangerous: the brutal, anarchical swell of disaster and entropy, or snagging, snaring, the encoded messages leading them there. The powers coincided, never collided, linking, fusing, meshing together in a tumultuous, searing force, and he enjoyed the alluring, beguiling reach they seemed to hold in their grasp.
He presumed those responsible for the potency, for the potential, should be rewarded for their efforts.
The eldritch titan’s steps followed after one scent in particular; heedless, ruthless, diabolical, he matched it beat for beat, stride for stride, until the Tallsun wind nourished naught but her presence, presiding near a few of the distant caverns. In truth, like so many of his inhabitants, he knew almost naught about her (and they towards him; he knew how to keep secrets too, polished reticence, nonchalance, impassivity with rigid, unyielding confidence): rose-hued, embedded with a sword, capable of pursuing enemies far and wide for information, for ornaments, for armor, for bloodshed. Once, she’d managed to puncture and pierce a fierce, feral enemy, one he’d managed to recently plunder, and even without enveloping knowledge, sagacity, or wisdom of her past, her present prose and poise was formidable enough to neglect simmering histories. She served her station with keen aptitude; the ethereal ruin was satisfied with the results. As he neared, the reign of his silence persisted, unreadable, indiscernible, an unattainable infidel motioning across stones and rubble, and the cretin gestured into the wind, attempting to catch her gaze before his voice reached across the dominating void, dropping his cranium in a curt, brusque bow, deep vocals piercing across the recherché atmosphere. “Hotaru.” The address was foreign on his tongue, seemed too spring-like, too warm, but perhaps even the calling was deceptive, and he nearly smirked at the notion. There were foxes and warlords in the dens, snickering and scheming, Machiavellian tides and currents sweeping. “Your furtive expertise has been noted and appreciated.” He paused, glanced over the voracious skyline, sought avaricious longings in the widened apertures, where the mountains were kings and the valleys were queens, and the Basin was admired for its brilliance, for its power, for its condemnation and ferocity. Features unchanged, they roamed back along to the pale femme, who had managed to excel in cunning, in wiles, in snares. “Are you interested in a promotion?”
She is a viper in a nest of coiled serpents, all alike in mannerisms, macabre machinations that boil, brew and bubble behind their thoughts and subconscious. They had all the loyalty of wolves, and yet remained with their hands flittering, flicking, hovering over the array of knives strapped lovingly to their sides. Hotaru did not believe in perfection, it was beyond the realm of her comfort, and yet she stubbornly found herself considering that the Aurora lands suited her as perfectly as she could deem possible. Everything from the cold, apathetic tranquility of the snows to the gleaming sentinels bearing down upon intruders seemed to compose sonnets to her very soul. A match made in heaven, she oft found herself musing with no small share of amusement. Perhaps even a dusting of disbelief, even after the seasons she'd spent shrouded in the Basin's borders, a loyal denizen. After all the horrors she'd overcome, goodness in cloaked malevolence seemed a blessing too great for her sinner's soul.
Throughout time the young maiden flourished, growing notorious in her smooth crimes. They feared her name, perhaps not in the same fashion they did the warriors with their speared crowns and killers eyes, but feared her nonetheless. It gave her strength, made her shiver and tremble and quake with the beauty, the justice of it all. She'd been blessed, at the end of her tale, the conclusion of her novel - the first of many to be made into sequels. Despite her youth, she had achieved so much, so much more than the blood and flesh that had spit her so unfairly into this world. And though she'd bled and staggered beneath the blows Fate deigned to share with her, Hotaru had never broken. She had lined her bones with steel and iron, straightened from her stooped figure to a queenly ruler, sly and beautiful. A vixen, a kitsune, with slanted eyes and grinning teeth that'd sooner rip the jugular out of an unsuspecting victim than patiently await their idiocy to end. It was a kindness, surely.
Though Hotaru had contemplated rising through the ranks, the rose and cream creation was aware of her age, of the barriers it brought to her. Simultaneously she was conscious of just how much she could therefore achieve, her future so vast and plentiful as it lay in rolling hills before her contrasting hued eyes. There was time, she would bide herself with, whispers of greatness and grandeur that both eased her daughter into sleep and bolstered her own confidences in the clutches of the nightly hours. She could be patient, when it suited her.
Delicate, dainty, she emerged from her selected home with grace. A dancer on fleeting steps, tiny feet that whisked her away into realms her kin could only dream of. Beautiful eyes once unfairly hidden in her youth whisked against the horizon, demanding it divulge its secrets, unearthing a reaper on her doorstep. The thief let a smile wind across her features, as easy as a piece of down aflutter down to earth from a startled starling. His vocals curved and curled round her name, bringing it to life like the lights that caressed the skies on darker summer eves, not quite illuminated as they did in midnight coils with the purpose of his visit.
"Lord Deimos," curled daintily from her lips, like warning smoke but with the deceitful pleasantry of kindliness that she'd long perfected. He appealed to the part of her that despised unnecessary wasting of her time, something the arrogant Thranduil had quickly figured out in their admittedly reactive time together. His compliments sleeked her feathers rather than puffed them with pride, accepting his drawling words with grace and elegance, poise and perfected stride. She saw no need to interrupt him, the train of his thoughts nigh apparent to her with how his aura shifted and trailed behind the words doggedly. At last, the reasoning for his seeking her out, a hound tracking the trail of her victims' blood dripping nonexistent from her hooves. "Interested is such an insufficient word," she cooed almost mournfully, a dove with bloodied breast hidden behind snowy wings. "How would you have me, my Lord?" If he were smart, he would see the gleam of her eyes, the razor she held in every little action that flicked from her muscles to entertain him. He could deign to promote her, to hold power that he grudgingly deserved over her, but Hotaru was still a serpent in a viper's nest. They all had fangs.
The Reaper did not shy from power. He embraced it, coveted it, utilized and wielded it on a daily basis, stoking, kindling, instigating and provoking the immoral, licentious munitions of his presence: he’d learned what it meant from an early age, to be bestowed, credited, and warranted with such gifts. In his youth he may have been frightened of his own capability for barbarity, but those days were long gone, and now he maneuvered and motioned in nefarious emblems, in ghoulish compositions, in sinister manifestations, breathing havoc, wreaking condemnation, harpooning devastation. In turn, he would bestow his people, his comrades, his patriots with the same, surround and encompass them with the fine points, the vigilant edges, the crushing, barbaric display of potency. He was far too aware, far too confident, in his own dominion to be threatened or endangered by their prowess or potential, and instead, he yearned for them to become great, bestial beings, swinging axes and rapiers and scythes through the iniquitous voids, titans loosened from their chains, behemoths rumbling through jungles, through corridors, through caves and caverns until they’d obliterated what they sought, what they craved. He’d reward them their given due, their just desserts, their earned pieces of victory and conquest. Thranduil, sneaky and furtive, had been granted his role, slithering and sinuous, unwinding into the shadows as a Thief, and while Deimos couldn’t give the rose mare the same title (for now they had two brigands, speciousness at their limit), he could give her a new rank, a more influential angle, a step above mere spies and shirking wraiths. She’d done her part, she’d heralded many stories, many secrets, and she’d furnished stolen goods and taken the skull-face for a time – the femme deserved her honorific. He didn’t move, an immobile, intimidating fixture of marble, Tartarean guiles and wiles, Lucifer’s favored creation, preferred sword, preferred beast, still impassive, still nonchalant. His narrowed stare, reticent and unyielding, a molding of phantoms and devils and fiends locked in infidel scabbards and eternally eager to unleash molten depravity, snared and focused on her wan smile, on the fairy essence so easily embossed and imbedded across her sanction. But he led a den of predators, of carnivores, of monsters, and wouldn’t be swayed by the ruffian, siren entanglements of a temptress; she was just as dangerous, just as treacherous, as the rest of them. How else had she obtained so many codes, so many trinkets, so many lives? While brawn could overpower, while death could shape demise, she still filled in gaps of their soldiers, still warranted a gift few of them could possess. He seized her words, the greetings, the coos, and ignored the simpering poison beneath them; he was venomous too, and it would be interesting to see which could sting, paralyze, and devastate more. While she undoubtedly plumed and preened at his compliments, for they were few and far between, he conjured the rest of his sanction, the drumming diligence of his tones, the reasoning for seeking her out from the entanglements of the day. “Impersonator.” If this wasn’t enough for her, if she was greedy and grasping and covetous, she could always claw her way through the webs and warrens of Thieves, and challenge them for the subterfuge throne.